Wait inside the shadow and let the world (explode, renew, remake)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: "It's okay, you know…to like what happened? You know that right?"


**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Anon wanted Caryl pegging. Many people want Caryl pegging, apparently. Like a kinky fandom wishlist or something.

 **Warnings:** Set in a post-season 5, ASZ time frame. Pegging, strap-on, anal sex, anal play, Daryl's usual issues: awful childhood, child abuse, violence, self-loathing, self-worth, hints of issues regarding anal sex/pegging in terms of homophobia and Daryl's messed up perceptions of gender, sexuality and personal preferences when it comes to sexy times.

 **Wait inside the shadow and let the world (explode, renew, remake)**

"It's okay, you know…to like what happened? You know that right?"

He didn't say anything, just eye her through his fringe. Eyes noncommittal and dark until she let him shuffle off, shrugging into his vest and banging down the stairs, out the door and into open air. He was already winded and itching under his skin when he shouldered his crossbow and headed off towards the gate. Nodding a greeting to Spencer and Sasha on watch before slipping out and into the bush without even so much as a word exchanged.

If anything he figured it would buy him a couple days before she tried to bring it up again. Tactful and gentle like easing him into the conversation would somehow help the fact that he'd come _untouched_ and mortifyingly quick to the slick of her finger ringing around his hole before he remembered why he should be stopping her.

The problem was he _did_ like it.

He liked it a lot.

Too much.

More than he should.

More than he figured a man - _a man like him_ \- was allowed to.

So much that he couldn't stop thinking about it even though he knew it was wrong.

Twisted and upside down and fucked up in a way that even he-

He hissed through his teeth. Cheeks clenching reflexively as the phantom touch of her fingers rimmed around his hole. Pressing down into the deep pink of him ghost-like and barely there before retreating and coming back slick. Nerves humming with a manic sort of pleasure that had him gasping for air, hips hiking desperately into the sheets before-

He shouldn't want it.

He wasn't like that, wasn't-

He'd fucked up and walked in on Aaron and Eric going at it once. Aaron had been late heading out for a run and he'd decided to go get him himself instead of waiting at the gate like a fucking idiot. Turns out he'd been late for a very good reason and it had taken him _days_ to get the after-image of Aaron thrusting into Eric's tight heat – a broken dish shattered across the tiles as he fucked the man into the counter, long cock red and dripping down the cupboard fronts – that'd been seared across his retinas out of his head.

It was a hindbrain instinct, it had to be. The desire to be filled. Sated. Cared for. Somewhere buried deep, it had to be something like that. Something that made all the shit make sense. Because honestly, the thing that never quite left his mind was the way Eric had looked. Slack-jawed and blissed out. Like the center of the universe was cleaving into him and everything else was supernovaing and there literally wasn't anywhere in the world he'd rather be than pinned down on Aaron's dick, just fuckin' taking it.

The thing that made it all worse was that he'd had this same conversation with himself – more or less – before. Back when he found a magazine he shouldn't have in a junk pile outside his skeevy neighbour's house back when he'd been nineteen and dumber than a pile of rocks and naturally took it home with him.

He'd spent the next few weeks with his prick waving out in front of him like it was trying to hitch a ride. Gasping as he palmed himself in the dark of his room and tried to work up the courage to shove more than the tip of his index finger into himself as he choked on his own spit and splattered the pages with streaks of thick-pearl. Hating himself a little bit more every time he cracked the cover of the dirty mag. Mouth a perfect drawn out o of surprise as he scooted closer to the light shining from the hall under his door. Fisting his cock until it was red, leaking and half-strangled in his hand. Flipping through the pages with shaking hands as a woman with long bubble-gum pink hair palmed her eight-inch strap on. Licking her lips with exaggerated flare as the man on the bed spread himself wide. Cock-hungry and wanting as he peeked over his shoulder – pleading – like there was nothing he wanted more than her inside of him. Stretching him open. Filling him up.

 _Christ._

Then his father had found it.

He still had the scars.

From both the blows and the words that had come along with 'em.

They were some of the last his old man gave him.

And ironically enough, they were the ones that hurt the most.

He realized half-heartedly that he'd been walking for miles by now. Stomping through the undergrowth too loud to think about hunting any game. Baggin' a hog, like Olivia kept yapping about. _For fucks sakes._ He shook his head. Squinting around him cautiously as he started edging north, eying the thinning trees as he tried to remember what Tobin had said about the small strip-mall they'd cleared out supply wise the first few months after being dropped off by the military convoy that'd brought them here. _Maybe there was stuff left to scavenge?_ It'd make him feel a bit less stupid for wasting all that daylight at any rate.

* * *

He had a decent haul of canned goods and other odds and ends before he was even halfway through. Things no one thought they'd actually need when they'd strip-mined the place the first time around. Things like screws and tools. Baby shit and warm clothes. Back when everyone was still banking on the world being able to come back from all this. That it was temporary. Not their new reality. God knows why they hadn't come back here sooner, not when it was practically on their doorstep. But hey, he wasn't the one in charge. So that crap was all on someone else. They were just lucky no one had swooped in on it in the meantime.

He was already making vague plans of coming back out with Glenn, Rosita and Tara the next day – maybe with a truck - when he stopped dead. The double take he ended up stumbling through was like taking a slap of PTSD and muscle memory arousal right to the god damned face.

Save for the inconspicuously empty shelves that'd once held condoms and lube, the sex shop was practically untouched. Dusty and in need of a good airing out, but refreshingly free of the usual half-rotted carcasses, blood stains and walkers that made up the majority of their shopping experiences these days.

The breath he blew out between his teeth when his feet don't obey the silent order to move was more frustrated aggression than anything. Hedging right up until he realized what an infant he was being and forced himself to have a good look around. Because, you know, he was a fucking adult and could do what he wanted. And if he wanted to take a look at the goods, well, it wasn't like anyone was around to judge, right?

He stuffed a couple of regular ol' playboys in his pack on sheer principal. Laughing a bit when he spotted a "Busty Asian Beauties" and even a "Tropical Latina Women" issue – already getting a kink in his gut thinking about slipping one to Glenn and Abraham when the girls weren't lookin' - just for a laugh. His eventual evisceration via two very dangerous, very pissed off women with access to a vast array of very pointy objects would definitely be worth it.

 _Probably._

Only thing was, the chuckle ended up suffocating in the back of his throat when he looked over at the opposing wall and caught sight of row on row of shiny leather harnesses - ranging from tasteful to ludicrous, monstrous to blindingly colorful. And suddenly all the spit in his mouth dried up like he was five days deep in the Sahara and he was right back to square fuckin' one was far as his sexual panic attack was concerned.

"Ah, _fuck_."

* * *

He came back to her eventually. Just like she probably knew he would. Letting the harness he'd snatched from the store _clink-clink_ on the floor between them. Still triple knotted in the black garbage bag he'd stuffed it in after a couple hours of painful indecision. Slipping from sweaty palms, stream-lined and remarkably easily when her expression stayed open – calm.

"I tried," he rasped, sounding worse than broken in his own ears as he tried to put decades of bone-deep want and prickling self-loathing into words. Because he had. He'd tried so hard. He lied to himself. _Hid._ He'd let his father and the cold metal of his worn leather belt win.

The painful part was that he'd inadvertently followed the Dixon family tradition of denying himself the things he wanted most. It was stupid, even selfish in a weird way. But the injustice of it still burned, tightly-coiled and confused in the very pit of him. Confused because that was all it was supposed to be, _a fantasy_ \- not a reality. Something kept deep, safe and hidden down in the very core of him. So secret that sometimes even he could forget about it. It was about wanting something he couldn't have, only she'd gone and ruined that by telling him he could. _Anything. Anything he wanted, he knew she'd give him. And honestly it almost made it worse._

"Shhh," she murmured, coaxing him in. Letting the bag puff out, rippling slow in the low summer breeze chugging lazily through the blinds in favor of cupping his cheek. Forcing him to shuffle forward as the scent of sweat and the outdoors clung to him like a second skin. And suddenly he was kissing her like he was fucking _dying._ Burning his stubble too-hard across freckled cheeks as he reeled her in and pressed his face into her neck – breathing shakily. Because for the first time, _this_ was coming easier than working out the jumble of words he didn't know if he'd ever be able to say.

The ones that echoed like: _yes and please and nownownow and don't make me ask for it_ _or I am going to run away and never come back_ all at once.

And in that way she did, somehow she just knew. Because instead of keeping him there, butterfly-pinned and achingly vulnerable, she kissed him back. It was a claim, layered and quicksilver-slow before she forced his chin up, looking him right in the eye - humming into his teeth like a big cat stretching lazily – confident and mature in all the right ways and _Christ- he was a goner._

"Shush, I've got you. Let me take care of you."

* * *

The words didn't calm him down much, just made him think. But later on, when he was ready, the press of her breasts against his back sure did the trick. She couldn't see it by that point, not with him on his hands and knees on the bed, ass naked and dripping - but his mouth had already set itself in an angry, defiant line. A warning, no, _a challenge_ , to himself not to screw shit up, not when he was this close, this close to-

He nearly ran the other way when he heard the harness jingle and click. Dick pulsing and hard as it curved up, bouncing against his belly as every part of him quivered – fear, anticipation and probably a half dozen other things he didn't have it in him to name or even begin to figure out for himself.

She pushed in slow – careful – like he was breakable and infinitely precious. A hesitation that he immediately loathed and loved all at the same time. Feeling her cleave through him in fractions, lighting him up in a way that had him scrabbling against the sheets. Fists clenching and unclenching around the curve of the mattress as the animal inside – the same one that'd been growling and pacing for all these years – abruptly curled into itself and bared it's neck in clear submission.

"Ain't gonna break," he rasped, wounded and scraped raw. Voice already wrecked through and they were barely even started. So, maybe not a ringing endorsement. Only Carol just laughed – coy and dark in a way that had his toes curling – before she pulled back and pressed right back in. Splintering him from the inside out as her hips found a rhythm and there was nothing he could do but firm his stance and grind himself back into the burning press.

After that, they were quiet. And true to form, there was nothing gentle about it. He took her cock like he'd been born to do it. Hips hitching back again and again until he was fucking back into her. Greedy and whining as one long unbroken sound – like a whine only lower – started issuing from his throat.

It got frantic somewhere along the line. Not giving each other time to breathe. Slick and slippery as the lube tumbled off the bed and started leaking slick into the carpet. Just like he'd imagined when he'd jacked off to the pictures in those magazines. Both of them getting caught up in it. Probably for their own separate reasons, but still managing to come back to each other with greedy kisses and nails that clawed down every time she sunk back home.

This was about what _he_ needed.

She'd shown him that.

The angle changed abruptly – jarring like a near death experience – when she slapped his ass and yanked him up, sliding into him with a quiet little grunt as she ground herself into little nub of the harness that hugged her clit. But it wasn't until she hit it again that he seized up. Blanking white. Eyes wide and sightless as his mouth fell slack and he sucked in air like he'd been gutted.

Her hand was on his flank, petting him through it. Telling him things that would have made him shudder and draw back any other time, but not now. Not when he was still riding that tantalizing burst of pleasure as his prostate _throbbed_ at the abuse. Feeling her nudging and pressing against it, milking his cock with razor-slow strokes against the abused little gland until he was caught in that strange place between folding in on himself – begging for it - and trying to escape.

 _It was too much_

 _He couldn't-_

"…Tell me when you're ready."

His jaw worked, dick blurting wetly where it was rubbing against the sheets. Hating her a little bit for putting it back into his control. For reminding him that he had options. That whatever happened next was his decision to make rather than one she was going to make for him. Sweetly damning in that quiet little way - like the awkward moment of unearthly silence just before the bomb dropped - because this way he'd know.

Looking back on it he wouldn't be able to get out of it.

Even if he tried.

Even if he _wanted_ to.

He'd know it'd only happened - that they'd only continued - because _he_ wanted to.

Because he wanted this.

 _Her._

Like this.

 _God-_

Then he shuddered - like a tree weathering a wicked winter storm, bending instead of breaking - and let out the single most _agonizing_ syllable of his entire life. Back curling, muscles rippling like the tension wires of his crossbow before-

"Please..."

* * *

The problem was, he wasn't sure _what_ he was more worried about.

Not being able to meet her eyes in the morning.

Or _not_ regretting it at all.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete. Cookies for those that got the Supernatural reference.


End file.
